Sick Days
by Rora Elle
Summary: A look at the Turner household as they cope with Angela's illnesses throughout the years. Set during and after series 4.
1. 1960

_A few glimpses of sick days in the Turner household. I do not own the characters._

 **1960.**

The death of Mae Hammond's baby was excruciating.

The perfect little girl had breathed, barely, a choking, gasping breath that had stolen the joy from the room and left them all made of porcelain.

Sister Winifred had sobbed then, her cries soon matched by Mae's, and the little girl had slipped away amidst the weeping, her own eyes never knowing tears.

Patrick couldn't get the sound of the women weeping out of his ears as he drove home. He couldn't forget the beautiful blue eyes of the baby, or the blue tinge to her lips as she gave up the fight to live. So as he crawled into bed only an hour before dawn, he pulled Shelagh into his arms and held on to his lifeline. Her quiet breathing drowned out the memory of the other women crying, and her solid weight kept him anchored to Earth, but just barely.

Just barely.

When he awoke, before he even opened his eyes, the first thing that he heard was Shelagh's breathing.

The first thought that poked through his groggy state was that her nose sounded congested. He hadn't heard it the night before, though, and maybe, if he caught the cold soon enough and coerced her into resting, he could stop it before it became full-fledged flu. He pushed his head closer to hers, intending on nuzzling her awake, but froze when an un-Shelagh-like scent met his nose. In fact, if he wasn't mistaken-

He opened his eyes to find large, dark eyes staring back at him. Baby-fine hair swept across his pillow where his daughter lay propped up, and as he blinked her into focus, she reached for his nose.

"Good morning, Angel," he whispered, pressing a kiss to her fingers.

Her response was a mighty sneeze that covered his face in her mucus.

"I'm afraid that somebody is in need of a doctor," said Shelagh, coming into the room in her nursing uniform, her hands occupied in twisting up her hair. "Her throat is quite swollen."

Patrick blinked at her, and she dropped her hands from her hair and laughed.

"Well, I suppose you've just seen it first hand," she said, grabbing a handkerchief from the dresser drawer and wiping first her daughter's nose, then her husband's face.

"She just has a cold, but bring her round to the surgery after my morning rounds, anyway, and I'll listen to her lungs more closely."

"Actually, Patrick," began Shelagh in a tone that put Patrick on guard, "I thought that you could take care of Angela this morning. I can come after lunch, but I really should check on the mothers that delivered at the maternity home yesterday, since I was the midwife present at their deliveries. And we really can't ask Mrs. Penney to stay with Angela while she is ill."

"But Shelagh, I have patients to see to, as well," replied Patrick, trying and failing to keep the annoyance out of his voice.

"Not anymore," answered Shelagh brightly, standing up and smiling at her husband. "The benefit of having your wife as your part-time receptionist – I've arranged for your morning calls to be covered, and morning surgery appointments have just been pushed to the afternoon."

Patrick frowned, and Shelagh bent to press a kiss to Angela's head and her husband's cheek.

"I've got to hurry now, but I'll see you at lunch!"

She was gone before Patrick could protest further, and Patrick blew out his breath sharply.

"Well, Angela, I suppose it's a Daddy and daughter kind of day," he said.

Angela didn't reply; she just blinked up at him and yawned, and he smiled and rubbed her belly.

"And our first order of business seems to be going back to bed!"

When Patrick awoke again, he was in a foul mood. Mae Hammond and her baby had crowded his dreams, and Mae's face had mixed with Shelagh's until he couldn't remember whether it was he who had lost a daughter, or whether he was the faceless doctor who stood helplessly in the corner throughout the dream. His dream left him completely disoriented, and he woke up thinking it 1958 again, before he had a wife or daughter of his own.

He opened his eyes to find his daughter still sleeping next to him, and he picked her up carefully and carried her into her nursery. She didn't wake, not even when he placed her in her cot, and it was then he realised just how ill she must be.

Rain dripped on the windowpane, and Patrick found himself transfixed by it as he waited for the kettle to boil. The raindrops raced much like his thoughts, and he became more and more tangled by them until the kettle whistled and tore him out of his confusion. His hand opened and clenched in time with the ticking of the clock on the wall, and he sat abruptly in a kitchen chair and held his head in his hands.

Perhaps Shelagh had been right to trick him into staying home this morning.

The tea at his elbow had gone cold by the time Patrick pulled himself out of his thoughts enough to hear the noise from upstairs. It began quietly at first, then escalated until the cry held such a plaintive note that Patrick found himself taking the stairs two by two. He burst into Angela's nursery to find her standing up, clutching the bars of the cot, and howling.

"It's okay, Angel, I'm here," Patrick reassured her.

The moment she saw her father, Angela stopped crying and held her hand out to him. He lifted her out of the crib and held her to his chest, and Angela tucked her head under his chin and sniffled.

"Don't worry," Patrick assured her, using his pyjama top to wipe away her tears, "Daddy didn't leave you. I'm here."

She frowned at him, and Patrick felt guilt tumble into his gut. How could he not have heard his own daughter cry? Better yet, why was it so easy for one unfortunate case to derail him entirely? He thought that he had recovered after his burn out in the summer, but apparently, that was not the case. He thought desperately of a holiday in Lyme Regis, or even just a weekend away in someplace that wasn't Poplar. It would be heaven to sleep without hearing traffic, to smell the damp wet of woods on a rainy morning.

Angela tugged the front of Patrick's pyjamas, a demand for his attention, and he blinked into her wide eyes.

"Yes, Angel, I know," he sighed. "I should be grateful for what I have right here. It's not Lyme Regis, but I've still got the rest of a morning with you. That will have to be enough for now, won't it?"

She reached for his nose, a sign he was beginning to understand as affection, and he caught her hand and kissed her fingers.

"Dada," she said, reaching for his nose again the second he released her hand.

"Yes, Dada," he agreed.

She smiled at him then, a wide beaming smile that showed her tiny new teeth, and patted his nose repeatedly.

"Dada," she sang. "Dada!"

It was then that Patrick realised what she was saying, and he grasped her hand.

"Angela! You're saying Daddy, aren't you? You're saying Daddy! Your first word is Daddy!"

"Dada!" she agreed.

"Daddy!" whooped Patrick, spinning Angela around the room. "That's right, my clever girl, I'm your Daddy!"

"Dadadadadada," chattered Angela in excitement.

"Just wait until I tell your Mother!" Patrick crowed.


	2. 1965

**1965.**

Patrick heard the clatter from downstairs, and he abandoned his tea and trotted up the stairs to find himself face to face with a brewing storm.

Angela was stood at her window, her arms crossed tightly across her chest, and he could tell that her lips were pursed, although he could only see the back of her head.

It was a ridiculous sight, one that prompted laughter from the depths of his stomach, but he managed to squelch it. Angela looked just like a tiny, furious Shelagh from this angle: her blonde hair escaping the attempts to keep it away from her face, her posture rigid, her feet clad in the slippers that she kept next to her bed.

However, Patrick knew that laughter was a bad idea. Like Shelagh, Angela managed to keep her anger in check most of the time, but any attempts to pull her out of her bad humour were met with quiet fury.

And all this from a five year old.

"Angel, you should be in bed," said Patrick as he surveyed the damage from the doorway.

Angela's crayons and paper were strewn across her bed along with her toy horses, his attempt at keeping her occupied and resting, and two of the crayons were cracked in half. Her precious baby doll was slipping to the floor to meet the storybooks that were stacked precariously next to the bed, and her nightgown was in a heap.

Angela turned to her father slowly, clothed only in her knickers and the bright red spots that covered her skin.

"I cannot bear it anymore," she announced in a quiet voice.

Her dignity was charming for a five year old, but Patrick was not fooled. He knew that it would shatter quickly enough, and he would have an explosion on his hands.

"I'm afraid that you must," he said gently, coming into the room.

Angela's lip wobbled, and Patrick picked her up and held her to his chest, just as he had when she was a child.

"But Daddy, it itches so badly," she cried.

Her hot tears trickled below Patrick's collar as Angela pressed her face to his throat, and Patrick swayed back and forth and tried to avoid accidentally scratching any of the spots.

"I know, darling," he murmured.

Angela had contracted chickenpox at school, and Shelagh had stayed with her for the first several days of the virus. Angela had been feverish and exhausted, staying in her bed happily for the most part. But Shelagh had needed to return to work to check on her patients, and Patrick had been called in for Doctor Dad duty.

It seemed now as if Angela's patience had come to an end, and Patrick was at a loss for what to do.

"I want Mummy," Angela cried, breaking his heart. "Where is Mummy?"

"Mummy's at work, dearest," Patrick replied. "She's not due back for several hours."

That was the worst thing that he could have said, and Angela's sobs became even louder.

"But I want her!" she cried, pulling her face away from his throat and smearing her mucus everywhere.

"I know, I want her too," replied Patrick as he held Angela closer to him. "But who says that we can't have fun? We don't spend whole days with just the two of us very often! What shall we do?"

Angela looked at her father dubiously, then at the toys and books around her room.

"Shall we read a book?" asked Patrick.

"Mummy read them all to me yesterday," said Angela.

"Shall we listen to a record then? We can bring Tim's record player in here."

"I hate the Beatles," said Angela with disgust.

"We could set up all your horses, and then you could draw a picture of them," suggested Patrick.

"I'm tired to death of drawing," replied Angela dramatically.

"Then what do you want to do?" asked Patrick.

Angela looked out the window, and her face lit up.

"Swing?" she asked hopefully.

"Angel, you know you're much too ill to play outside," replied Patrick sadly.

"I know, but I itch so much I could die," whined Angela plaintively as her tears started again. "You're a doctor. Do something!"

"There's no cure for chickenpox, I'm afraid," said Patrick, sinking into the rocking chair that was still in her room from her babyhood.

"So there's nothing you can do?" asked Angela.

Patrick rubbed her back gently, giving up on not bringing her some relief (although Shelagh had told her over and over, "Darling, DO NOT SCRATCH."), and pondered.

"There is something that we could try," he said finally. "But it requires going to the kitchen. And we've got to be very sneaky so that Mummy doesn't know who the culprits are."

"Are we going to steal something?" asked Angela, her eyes wide.

"You'll see. But first, put on your nightgown. I need your help, because you know that Daddy is not very good in the kitchen."

"Actually, you're rubbish in the kitchen," Angela informed him, smirking playfully.

Together, they crept back to the kitchen, Patrick's sneaky movements exaggerated to make his daughter laugh. Patrick put his cold tea in the sink to wash up later and opened the pantry.

"What we need is in here," he said, searching high and low dramatically. "But I can't seem to find it. Angela, do you see the oatmeal?"

"The oatmeal?" asked Angela, wrinkling her nose. "What do you need that for? It's not breakfast time."

"It's for my plan," said Patrick, winking at his daughter. He saw the oatmeal on one of the higher shelves, and he casually moved the box of Corn Flakes so that Angela could see it.

"There it is!" she crowed. "Up on top."

Patrick boosted his daughter onto his shoulders, and Angela reached for the box and pulled it down.

"Okay, now what?" she asked, tapping her foot on the ground.

"Now we have to grind it into powder. Do you want to help me?"

"It sounds messy," said Angela skeptically.

"It probably is; that's why I need your help," said Patrick. He measured out the oatmeal, then handed the mortar and pestle to Angela.

Angela took to the task with relish, and when her strength was gone, Patrick took over.

"That's hard work," said Angela conversationally. "But much better than the swing."

"You sound like your mother's daughter," commented Patrick.

"I'd better wipe the table so she doesn't know we've been here," continued Angela. "If you put everything back just the way it was, she doesn't have to know what we've done."

"Now you sound like Tim," said Patrick, eyeing his daughter. "What have you two been getting up to?"

"Nothing!" said Angela quickly, looking at him with wide eyes.

"I don't believe you," replied Patrick. "I should tickle it out of you."

"Yes, please!" chirped Angela, and Patrick laughed.

"Cheeky monkey," he said.

Angela pouted, and Patrick grabbed her around the middle and carried her upstairs.

"Now it's into the bath for cheeky monkeys!" he said, setting her down in the bathroom.

"With oatmeal?" asked Angela skeptically as her father began to run the water. "I'm not a breakfast food!"

"It's meant to take the itching away," replied Patrick.

Quicker than lightning, Angela had her clothes off and was rushing for the bathtub.

"Easy now!" said Patrick, laughing as he caught her mid-leap. "Let me check the water and put the oatmeal in. Then you can have a nice, long soak."

"A long soak?" repeated Angela with disgust. "Boring."

"What if I tell you a story while you soak?"

"About anything?" asked Angela perking up.

"Within reason," answered Patrick warily.

"Can it be made up?"

"Of course."

"Can it be about a princess?"

Patrick panicked for a moment, racking his brain for princess stories. He knew that he had read one to her recently, but she would be upset if he stole one that she already knew. Making up stories about fictional princesses was not Patrick's forte.

Angela stood next to the bath, arms crossed, waiting for his answer, and Patrick forced a confident smile onto his face.

"Of course it can be about a princess!"

Angela climbed into the bath then and settled her head back, the red spots on her skin a stark contrast to the white tile.

"All right then, I'm waiting," she said majestically.

Patrick thought for a moment, then smiled to himself.

"Once, there was a princess who was very ill," he began, and Angela rolled her eyes.

"Daddy, the story can't be about me."

"It isn't," replied Patrick, reaching into the tub and splashing her with water.

Angela giggled and splashed him back, and Patrick took off his shirt for safe-keeping. Clad only in his vest, he settled onto the floor with his back against the toilet and resumed his story.

"As I was saying, there was a princess who was very ill. She was so ill that she had to be taken to hospital a long way from the aunties that she lived with. It was such a long journey, and such a startlingly bad illness, that the only person trusted enough to take her to hospital was her faithful servant, the Court Doctor."

"Was the Court Doctor old?" interrupted Angela.

"Not very," replied Patrick quickly. "He was a dashing man of a certain age."

"A certain age?" repeated Angela. "Like twenty?"

"A bit older than that," said Patrick. "But it's not important. May I continue?"

"Please."

"The Court Doctor was the one who had discovered that the Princess was sick. The Princess was much loved by her people, because she had devoted her life to making sure that they were happy. In order to do this, the Princess and the Court Doctor had worked together to bring all of the people of the land to the Castle to check that they were well. It was a cruel twist of fate that the one who was not well was the Princess herself."

"Was the Court Doctor very sad?" asked Angela.

"Terribly," said Patrick, smiling wistfully. "He sat on his horse in the rain and looked out over all the kingdom, and he wanted nothing more than to go and get the Princess."

"But he couldn't, because she was ill?"

"That's right. She was very ill, so the Court Doctor had to wait. He did not know if he would ever get to see the Princess again. It was then that he wished that he had taken advantage of the time that they had been together, that he had told her how kind she was, and how much the people of the land needed her. Of how much he needed her."

Angela looked at her father sadly. "Did the Princess die?"

"She did not," said Patrick, reaching out to pinch his daughter's nose. "In a miraculous turn of events, she became well again. And the first thing that she did when she was well was to send a letter to the Court Doctor to tell him that she was coming home."

"But how was she to get home, if it had been such a long journey to get to hospital?" asked Angela practically.

"Well, my darling, that is why the Court Doctor knew that he had to go get her. He left right in the middle of the patient that he was seeing, and he rode as fast as the wind to get the Princess."

"And they rode into the sunset happily ever after?" asked Angela.

"Not quite. You see, the Princess was very independent, because she had been raised by her aunties to take care of herself. She did not wait for the Court Doctor to get to the hospital. Instead, she packed her bags herself, and she began walking home."

"But she had just been ill!" protested Angela.

"Exactly!" exclaimed Patrick. "And not only that, but she did not know the way home! So she began the journey on her own, and she took the wrong road."

"Oh no! But how will the Court Doctor find her? The Princess is quite stupid, I think!"

"Angela!" said Patrick. "The Princess was not stupid. She was just independent. She was used to taking care of herself. And what was worse, while she was in hospital, she had realised that she did not just want to be friends with the Court Doctor. In fact, she realised that she was in love with him."

"And he was in love with her!" said Angela. "That's why he sat on his horse in the rain!"

"Yes, precisely. And it was with all of that love in his heart that the Court Doctor searched high and low until he found the Princess wandering down a country lane in the mist."

"How romantic," sighed Angela dreamily.

"Quite. He slid off his horse and walked to her, and when she turned around, the Court Doctor forgot how to breathe. You see, he had never seen the Princess without her crown and her royal robe before. But on the misty road, she was not wearing them. And that was when he realised that she was the most beautiful woman that he had ever seen."

"And then they rode into the sunset?" asked Angela.

"Almost," said Patrick. "There was only one problem. You see, the Princess loved the Court Doctor, and the Court Doctor loved the Princess, but it was not allowed for a Princess to marry anyone other than a Prince. And the Court Doctor was most definitely not a Prince."

"So what did they do?"

"Well, the Princess loved the Court Doctor very much, more even than she loved being a Princess. So the Court Doctor took her back to the castle, and it was there that she met with her aunties, the ones ruling the kingdom for her, and told them that she no longer wanted to be a princess."

"And then they got married?"

"And then they got married. And although she no longer had her title, to the Court Doctor, she never stopped being a princess. The end."

Angela sighed happily and reached for her father's nose with pruny fingers.

"That story was beautiful, Daddy," she said.

"I'm glad you liked it," he replied. "And now, I think you've had enough soaking. Let's get you dried off and into bed."

Angela let Patrick dry her off without any protest, and as he tucked her into her bed, she placed her hand on his cheek.

"Daddy, your story was about Mummy, wasn't it?" she asked.

"Yes, it was," he said.

"And she'll always be a princess to you, won't she?"

"She's not just a princess, Angel. To me, your mother is a queen."

Angela smiled, her cheek dimpling, and she took her hand from her father's cheek and tucked it under her chin.

"I think so, too," she said as he turned to leave the room. "And to me, you're not just a doctor, Daddy. You're as handsome and brave as a king."


End file.
